Chapter 4
4
August
M y phone lights up next to my soundboard, and I quickly press Pause on the male narrator I’m listening to as he describes the color patterns of Canada geese along a riverbank. While I’ve never made a habit of checking my phone on the job, I’ve also never had to listen to someone read for eight-plus hours until recently, either. Checking my phone notifications has become somewhat of a needed palate cleanse for my ears as this is the third audiobook I’ve produced for Fog Harbor Audio. So far, staying alert when my mind wants to drift has proven to be the most challenging part of this gig.
But it’s a solid paycheck. And that’s what matters most.
I glance at the screen and smile when I see her name.
Gabby:
How many energy drinks have you consumed today? Don’t lie.
I chuckle at my sister’s familiar text greeting. She’s either found a signal due to a camp excursion, or our aunt has popped in with lunch for her and her friends again. I side-eye the sixteen-ounce beverage on my desk.
Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m still on my first can.
Gabby:
The jumbo size or the regular?
I groan.
Are you doing anything useful today besides monitoring my caffeine intake?
Gabby:
Aunt Judy brought five batches of mom’s famous peanut butter fudge to camp, so we took our lunch down to the water. I forgot how delicious this stuff is!
The twinge of grief is fleeting, but it still takes me a moment to reply.
I’d ask you to save me some, but given you’re not even halfway through camp yet, I won’t be so cruel. You’ll need something to snack on the next time you pass on pizza night.
Gabby:
Urgh. That pizza was foul. ?? Also, don’t tell Aunt Judy I told you, but she made a batch for you, too. She’s headed your way on Saturday so I asked if she’d mind picking up a few things for me from my closet. I could use an extra pair of shoes.
Gabby:
I’m LOVING it here though (other than the pizza) and I’m learning SO MUCH! I feel like my brain is absorbing ASL three times faster since the camp is total immersion. Tyler says I’ve picked it up quicker than anyone he’s ever known. Thank you again for letting me come ??
Gabby:
What about you? Are you keeping your promise to me? Are you having some real fun?
I blink at her rapid-fire texts, remembering when her team of doctors pulled me aside to tell me they couldn’t be sure how well her brain would recover after the trauma she suffered in the accident. And yet here she is, typing three times faster than I can think and exceeding all the best-case scenarios. Except for one.
When I don’t respond to her last text with super human speed, she sends another.
Gabby:
Auuuguuuussssstttttt????
Fun is relative at my age. Chip is on his way over in a few. We’ll probably grab takeout after we finish up a work project at the studio.
Gabby:
You always get takeout with Chip. So no, that does NOT count.
Gabby:
And what work project?
When did I become so predictable? I take a second to consider how to tell her I’ve taken on a new job since I dropped her at Camp Wilson. What’s the least nerdy way of saying I listen to people read books for a living now?
There’s this new trend in literary entertainment, integrating voice actors into the book world. Chip’s super pumped about it, so I’m helping him out for a while.
Gabby:
You mean like audiobooks?
So, basically, I am exactly the nerd she thinks I am.
I provide her with a thumbs-up emoji, hoping she’ll leave it alone.
Gabby:
Okay, well ... if you don’t send me a pic of you doing something fun soon, I’m gonna send you some pictures of me riding a stallion bareback down a beach without wearing a helmet. Gotta go!
She’s joking , I assure myself. But even still, my pulse kicks up a notch as an unwanted image of my sister endangering herself plays across my mind in slow motion. I tug my studio headphones off, feeling the need to take something apart just so I can put it back together again. I do a quick scan of my work area, looking for such a project, when I notice the takeout box from last night’s dinner sticking out of the too-small trash can. Another bad habit I’ve developed as of late: eating in my studio instead of going into the house, which is only on the other side of the driveway from my remodeled studio. But on the upside, working through dinner has helped me log more hours in my new side hustle as I flag mouth pops, slurred words, harsh consonants, and weird exhales, and take note of any area that needs to be rerecorded.
I’ve found that pumping myself full of caffeine helps me stay focused on the reader, rather than on the sound effects I can imagine adding to each scene—wind instruments, percussion, and some creeping bass notes for dramatic intrigue. Maybe in the same way I can hear music where it doesn’t exist, a reader can create connections to characters who also don’t exist. What a bizarre thought.
I drain the last of my drink and toss the can into the overflowing recycle bin near my thinking couch. I should probably take that out. Otherwise it might actually look like I have a problem.
I glance at the clock above the recording booth and note that I have approximately fifteen minutes before Chip arrives with a local narrator he’s looking to contract. He asked me to record a fifteen-minute demo he can send to his author for approval. My hesitant agreement came with the caveat of just this once , as I don’t wish to make a habit out of hosting story hour in my one and only equipped recording booth reserved for musicians. It’s one thing for him to send me the raw cuts of his narrators. It’s another to have them invade my personal space. In the future, I’d love to outfit a second booth as the space is already framed in, but at the moment, it’s nothing more than a storage closet.
With the overloaded recycle bin gripped in my right hand, I head to the door, throw it open, and bump the bin directly into a pair of legs. Decidedly female legs. There’s only a fraction of a second to ponder this as our bodies collide and then promptly bounce apart, sending a spray of cans through the air like confetti in the process.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” the woman blurts as we both attempt to collect the flying objects before they begin their final descent onto the driveway and roll into the street.
She catches the two at her feet while I jog after the ones that got away. In an instant, we’ve become teammates, successfully retrieving my recycling and making goal shots into the bin I’ve set against the outside wall to deal with later.
When I finally stand upright and face my surprise visitor, I can’t even pretend not to notice how arrestingly beautiful she is—like some sort of fairy-tale maiden straight out of the princess books my mom used to teach my sister English. Her caramel-brown hair is long and wavy with streaks of light and dark, half bound with a thick blue ribbon tied near the crown of her head. The tails swish every time she moves. With that and her intriguing wardrobe of layered fabrics and colors, there’s literally too much for me to capture in a single glance. I’m not even sure a full five-minute study of her would do the job.
“Hello,” she says with a voice that seems to pry open a chasm in my chest. “Are you August Tate, the audio engineer?”
“Yes, I’m ... August.” I have never sounded so unsure of my first name. Was she here to inquire about my marketing ads online? A singer, maybe?
“Oh, good.” She sighs and smiles at me in a way that makes my lips follow suit of their own accord. “I’m glad I found you. I’m Sophie Wilder.” She adjusts her stance, then holds out her hand to me in greeting. I hesitate before taking it, but when I do, our hands remain connected a beat longer than two strangers meeting for the first time should. The instant we break apart, I’m already hoping it won’t be the last time I get to touch her. “I believe Chip Stanton scheduled me to record a demo here today at two?” She glances at her watch. “I was worried I’d be late, but since there was little traffic out this way, I’m actually here a few minutes ahead of schedule.”
Wait . Sophie is the narrator Chip scheduled? Had he mentioned that she was a ... she ? If so, he’d conveniently left out a few key adjectives.
She hooks her thumbs under the padded straps of her backpack and gives me a questioning look. “I’d be fine to wait outside until Chip arrives.”
It’s only then I realize I haven’t uttered a single word since I caveman-spoke my first name. Pull it together, Tate. “No, no. That’s okay. Please. Come in.” And just like that, I’m suddenly regretting not doing a more thorough cleanup of the studio. It’s been a long time since I’ve invited an outsider into the messy state of my life, longer still since that outsider has been a woman unrelated to me. “I’m afraid I don’t get many guests, but you’re welcome to make yourself comfortable on the sofa there. I doubt Chip will experience the same traffic luck, coming from the city.”
As soon as she steps past me, I’m hyper-aware of the sweet, intoxicating fragrance that trails after her. Something floral maybe?
“Traffic is so fickle, isn’t it?” She gives a half laugh, half groan. “In New York, it seemed like the more pressed for time you were, the more delays you were sure to have.”
“New York?” I ask, surprised. “Is that where you’re from?”
“Originally? No.” She takes in the various instruments on my wall with curious eyes, and I suddenly wish I was a mind reader. “I actually grew up just outside of Santa Rosa, but I went to college at NYU and lived there for the past eight years. I only moved back recently.”
There’s a story there, I’m sure of it. But seeing as I’m probably the last person on earth to ask a stranger something so personal, I just say, “That’s a big change.”
She lowers her eyes to her metallic gold sandals that tie in bows at her ankles. One peeks out through the slit in her long denim skirt every now and again as she gently sways left to right. “It’s been an adjustment, to be sure.”
I pick up on the somber note in her tone even as her lips tip north. I rarely allow myself to think about what I might miss about living in LA. Instead, it’s easier to focus on the traffic, the smog, the constant crime and ridiculous crowds, the ex-girlfriend who exploited my regrets like trophies. But there were other parts, more significant parts, that feel as if they were amputated from my life without permission. I suppose, in a way, they were.
“May I offer you a drink?” I open my fridge and then immediately wince, wishing I’d taken the time to restock the sparkling waters Gabby always adds to the grocery list. Or, you know, shopped at a grocery store. “Unfortunately”—I run a hand through my hair—“my selection is fairly limited at the moment.”
“Unless I’m in the mood for an energy drink, you mean?” she says with a smirk. “You know, the first step to help is admitting you have a problem.”
“Then I’m definitely not on that step yet.” I hold up my favorite flavor. “But I am willing to share.”
She flashes me another grin, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I’ve been so affected by, well, anyone. Maybe this is a side effect of the caffeine. If so, I might never stop. “Thanks for the offer, but I try to stick to water as much as I can—vocal chords are pretty boring that way.”
I watch her twirl a long strand of hair around her finger as she studies the framed pictures on my wall: Most of them are bands I worked with in LA, some of them are album covers; all of them are signed to me. Gabby had found them shoved into a moving box around the same time I was finishing up the renovations on the detached garage. She’d come to me one night with an armful of frames and an idea of how to hang them. I couldn’t say no to her. She was too happy to find something she could do to help that didn’t require her being in the center of a construction zone. “It’s good marketing to show your work history, August,” Gabby said as if she was keen on good business practices at her age. “You never know who might wander in here someday and need a sound engineer with your exact qualifications.”
I can only imagine what Gabby would be thinking if she could see Sophie in here right now. Undoubtedly, she’d like her. The woman’s artsy style alone would draw my sister in like a—
“Wow,” Sophie says. “You’ve worked with a lot of artists. Where was this big studio located?”
“LA,” I say, working to scratch the thoughts about Gabby meeting Sophie from my head. This woman will be here and gone in thirty minutes with nothing but a demo to show for it.
I’ve just fished out the single bottle of water from the back shelf of my fridge to give to Sophie when a peculiar sound pricks my ear. A low, soft rumble.
The volume increases incrementally as I approach Sophie standing near the picture wall. I hold out her water.
“Here’s your—” But I can’t finish the sentence because I’m too busy seeing something that simply can’t be. I blink to clear my vision, but the transparent orb strapped to Sophie’s back is still there. And so is the purring black-and-white cat inside it.
I leap back. “That’s a cat.”
The words come out stilted, only there is nothing stilted about the memory of my aunt’s demon tabby attacking me in my sleep more than a decade ago.
Sophie twists to face me. “What?”
She can’t be serious. I wait a beat, then two, thinking maybe Chip has put her up to this? Is this woman nothing more than an innocent bystander to a prank involving one of my most traumatic childhood memories?
“You have a cat strapped to your back,” I repeat.
“Oh! Right,” she exclaims with a laugh. “Yes, I’m sorry.” She slips one shoulder strap down and then twists the whole weird contraption around to her front. “This is Phantom.” She then plunges her entire hand through a hole in the side of the bag with seemingly no fear of losing her extremities and then ... strokes its head. “Phantom, this is August.” She lowers her voice as if to keep her confession between us. “He’s adjusted to the backpack pretty well, but the last time he was in it was for a super long day of travel I’m sure neither of us wants to repeat anytime soon.”
I’m frozen. My limbs are stuck in this awkward mid-movement state, hands poised to cover my vital organs, water bottle wielded like a sword. I stare at the feline for what feels like all nine of its lives before I look up to its owner and simply ask, “But why?”
She tilts her head, her concerned expression directed at me. “Why what?”
“Why is he here ? In my recording studio. Is he some sort of...” I search my mental files for the proper terminology. “Emotional support cat or something?”
Sophie laughs. “More like I’m his emotional support human—although lately I suppose it’s about fifty-fifty.” She must pick up on my confusion by this point, because her smile dims. “I’m sorry. I was under the impression from Chip that it wouldn’t be a problem for me to bring Phantom today. I emailed him this morning to ask and—wait.” Her eyes widen as if only now being struck by the horror of this situation. “You aren’t allergic or anything, are you?”
Does phobia count as an allergy? I shake my head and watch as her neck splotches pink.
“Just not a cat person then ...” She swallows at whatever non-verbal answer she discerns in my expression. “Right ... and I suppose you probably think I’m some sort of crazy lady who always takes her cat out in public—but I promise you, I’m not. Crazy, I mean. At least, not about cats. Phantom is a special case; he’s a rescue cat, and he’s super old and practically blind in one eye, and my brother has this giant construction project going on right next to where we’re staying, and this morning the walls were actually vibrating from whatever jackhammer thingy they were using, and I truly thought Phantom might not survive the day if I left him alone.” She sucks in a huge breath. “Normally, I would be fine leaving him in the car for a bit, but there was no shade on the street where I parked, and it’s too hot in the sun, and so yeah ... that’s why he’s here.”
The second Sophie’s finished speaking, a cloud of awkwardness descends, leaving us at an impasse. While her persuasive speech might have moved the proverbial needle a notch or two closer to Team Phantom, it doesn’t erase the fact that cats are shifty and unpredictable.
This whole thing is such a signature Chip move. Naturally, he would think nothing of inviting a woman and her cat to what is essentially a job interview—why? Because he’s a genuinely nice person who is rarely, if ever, put out by anyone. His bachelor-led lifestyle is full of fast-paced, spur-of-the-moment decisions that offer little in the way of consequence and a lot in the way of freedom. And sometimes it’s difficult not to feel the least bit envious of the autonomy he holds over his own life.
I’ve only just begun to calculate the ways he will need to make this up to me when the devil himself bursts inside.
“Hey, August.” He holds up a palm in greeting and then spots my surprise guest on the sofa. “And you must be Sophie. It’s so good to meet you.” He takes her free hand as if she’s a celebrity, grasping it with both of his and shaking vigorously. “I sincerely apologize for my tardiness. I always refer to rush hour as sloth hour.” Chip says all this as if it’s completely normal to greet a woman who is petting a geriatric cat inside a giant plastic bubble with air holes.
“No problem at all,” Sophie says with notably less brightness in her voice than she had three minutes ago. “It’s nice to finally put a face to all the emails we exchanged last week.”
Chip squats down then, eye level with the cat he approved for a playdate in my studio. “And this handsome fella must be Phantom.” Chip grins and rocks back on his heels to smile up at Sophie. “Genius name. He looks exactly like him.”
I scrunch my eyebrows together. Like who? How many black-and-white cats has Chip been introduced to?
“Ya know, that was my first experience with live theater,” he continues, hand to his heart. “It made a big impact on me as a teenager.”
“I never got to see it live,” Sophie chimes in. “I so wish they’d bring it back.”
I look between them both, waiting for someone to clue me in on the last twenty seconds of this conversation, but they’ve already moved on. Chip invites Sophie back to the recording booth— my recording booth —at the far end of my studio while he chats up a storm regarding how pleased he was with her submission and how he has high hopes for this demo.
Meanwhile, the cat has been left in his see-through prison on the sofa, pawing to get out.
Not going to happen,buddy.
“August?” Chip rotates to face me as if I’ve just returned from an extended vacation. “I’d like for Sophie to read the sample chapter I sent her last night. You mind helping her get situated in the booth?”
There is no interpretation needed for the look I laser into Chip on my way back to get Sophie situated . But I suppose the sooner she reads, the sooner she and her cat backpack will be on their way, and the sooner I will make it abundantly clear to Chip that this scenario will never happen again. I signed a contract to produce unfinished cuts from the narrators he sends me, not to escort them into my booth after what might be one of the most uncomfortable interactions I’ve ever had with another human.
“I’m happy to read this for you, Chip,” Sophie says hesitantly, “but I’m sorry in advance if Phantom throws a fit. He can get a bit temperamental when he feels trapped.”
That makes two of us.
“How ’bout I hold him while you’re in the booth?” Chip offers. “It shouldn’t take more than ten or fifteen minutes. I’m interested to hear how you interpret each character description I emailed you last night. There are six characters in the reading I’ve chosen. Feel free to take a moment.”
“Thank you.” Sophie appears to be studying the script on her phone carefully.
I hand her a pair of studio headphones. “I’m guessing you’re familiar with this process?”
She looks up at me then, and I feel a distinct, radiating pinch in the center of my chest. “Actually, no,” she says as if this is a confession booth instead of a recording booth. “This is all new to me. I used my iPhone to record the audition for Fog Harbor’s submission opening. I don’t have a home studio like a lot of the narrators I’ve researched online. My living situation is too temporary for something like that.”
I nod, and to my surprise, compassion rises to the surface more quickly than I anticipate. I may not understand her choice in animal companions, but I can offer her some pointers on recording booths. “This mic here is incredibly sensitive, so you won’t need to speak loudly, just clearly.” I demonstrate how close she should be for the best quality and how to minimize unnecessary mouth noises, which I will be working to eliminate on my end as well. She nods like I’ve told her the secret to immortality, and it takes a Herculean effort to cut my gaze away from her piercing green eyes. Jade , I think to myself. That shade is called jade green.
At least these tips will be useful to her if she decides to make a career out of this.
“Thanks,” she says after she swipes to another page on her phone. “I think I’m ready.”
I exit the padded booth and round the corner to find Chip fishing the cat out of the pack. I don’t even bother with a sarcastic comment. I’d rather pretend neither of them exists at the moment.
“Do we wear headphones out here, too?” Chip asks as Phantom attempts to crawl up his arm.
I hand him a pair and say, “Don’t even think about taking these off and leaving them where they’ll get chewed on or clawed. They’re not replaceable.” With my current savings, none of my equipment is.
“He’s a cat, August, not a wolverine.”
“Tell that to the three-inch scar on the back of my neck.”
I can almost hear his eyeroll.
I instruct Sophie to say the ABCs so I can get a baseline for her levels and adjust the controls accordingly. For a woman her age, the mature texture of her voice is unusual. It has the same velvety quality that a professionally trained singer might possess.
Chip taps me on the shoulder, and I slip my left ear out of the headphones. “Did she tell you about her impressive résumé?”
I shake my head once .
“She’s an actress.”
“As is most of the population of southern California.” I adjust the EQ.
Chip is undeterred. “No, like a real one. She majored in theater and has worked on many live productions in New York, including on Broadway.”
Ah , so that’s how New York fits in. So why on earth would she choose to record books over acting on a stage? She certainly has the look of an actress. I bring up the master mix when Sophie reaches W in the alphabet and cut Chip off when I press the intercom and tell her I’m all set to record whenever she’s ready. This time when she smiles, all I have to do to fight off the pinching sensation is look at her cat.
I tap the red Record button and then point at Sophie through the glass window that separates us.
She starts to read, but my concentration is divided due to Chip tapping me on the shoulder. Again.
“Yes?” I pull back an earphone.
“If I get the green light on Sophie from my author, she would get a ton of positive exposure as well as an immediate second contract for the sequel. It’s a rapid release that will be ready for preproduction in early winter. But we expect Allie’s launch will be epic.”
“Allie? As in Allie Spencer ?” I give him a baiting look. I’ve heard her name come up dozens of times since I moved back home. Supposedly, she’s a young author who lives in Washington State but interned at Fog Harbor Books while finishing up her creative writing degree last year. Chip swears there’s never been anything unprofessional between the two of them—seeing as he’s been her editor—but I haven’t heard him talk about any of the women he’s casually dated even half as much as I’ve heard him mention Allie.
“I’m choosing to ignore the implication in your tone,” he says dryly. “But yes. Allie Spencer, one of my authors.”
“And what happens if you get promoted after all this? Will she still be off limits?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, and then shakes his head as if it’s the first time he’s even entertained the idea. “Let’s just focus on the demo.”
“Fine.” I slip both ears back on and work to concentrate on Sophie’s voice, careful not to meet her gaze through the glass, which is far more difficult than it should be. I stare at my controls while I take in the quality of her enrapturing cadence for nearly a minute. I have no idea what this story is about, but somehow, I feel like I’m in it right beside her. Seeing what she sees, feeling what she feels—
Tap, tap, tap.
I push aside my headphones and sigh.
“She’s really good, isn’t she?”
“I wouldn’t know, you keep interrupting.”
“Listen, August, I know you don’t prefer to make decisions quickly, but if Allie likes Sophie’s voice as much as I think she will, the turnaround on this project is gonna be tight.”
This garners my full and undivided attention.
“Meaning?”
“Sophie needs a studio to record in.” He holds up both hands. “Don’t say no yet. I know you need time to overthink it, but it would just be temporary. A few weeks tops until we can secure a better option for her somewhere else. It sounds like Sophie’s only in the area short-term anyway.”
While I’m imagining what life will look like when Gabby returns from camp and I’ve once again assumed the role of a single parent—rides, appointments, meal-planning, etc.—he continues. “We’d compensate you for your booth time and the production time if you agree.” He lowers his voice, even though Sophie’s in a soundproof room with headphones on. “And from the little information I’ve gathered from Sophie, it sounds like she could use a good break.”
I don’t want to feel anything at his words, especially since her cat is staring at me through predatory eyes. “This isn’t a rent-by-the-hour studio, Chip. It’s one thing for me to produce audiobooks in the evenings at my soundboard, but my priority is Gabby. I need to be available for her.”
“Of course.” Chip’s quiet for all of five seconds before he flicks his eyes from the booth to me. “You can’t tell me Sophie isn’t talented.”
“I never said she wasn’t.”
Chip smiles as if he’s won. “Think on it.”
When we slip on our headphones again, I picture the other studios I’ve researched in a sixty-mile radius, knowing full well that none are closer to Santa Rosa than mine. And even if she were lucky enough to find an opening in San Francisco, her commute would be arduous.
In my right headphone, I hear a distinct shift in Sophie’s cadence that draws me back in. She slips into an accent I can’t place, likely because she’s just invented it on the spot. Her voice registers in the tenor range on my levels and holds a gravelly quality I never would have guessed could come out of someone who looks like her.
It’s captivating. Correction: She’s captivating.
In just over eight years of producing music, I’ve only experienced this ravenous sensation in my gut a handful of times. And with each one, the unknown artist went on to break record after record with the EPs I produced for them.
It’s the same sensation I feel now.
Sophie masters the tight dialogue flawlessly, slipping in and out of multiple dialects with ease. Every character she creates for these magical woodland creatures is distinct and memorable, stirring my imagination in ways I didn’t know possible. Soon, every cell in my body is attuned to her voice, so much so that I feel the exact millisecond when something inside me yawns awake after years of hibernation.
It terrifies me.
Chip taps me on the shoulder again, but this time I can’t bring myself to remove my headphones, not even after she’s finished reading. I may not understand much about this medium of entertainment, but I do understand that the caliber of talent Sophie Wilder possesses is rare. The kind of rare my home studio has been lacking for the past two years.
The same kind of rare I’d almost convinced myself I’d never find again ... before she spoke word one in my sound booth.